


Primary Lovers

by DevilsPetGoat



Series: Democratic Primary Fun [2]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Abuse of Frosting, Adultery, Extended Affair, F/M, I'm Going to Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7107367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilsPetGoat/pseuds/DevilsPetGoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Backstage at the Debates.   A woman versus a man, and both of them determined in and out of bed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primary Lovers

1\. Debate Nights

After her idiotic behavior in Vegas, (really? A housekeeping closet?) She wore a pantsuit to the remaining debates.

The pantsuit became a moot point when it was hung over the footboard of a large feather bed in New Hampshire. “Please just 30 more seconds.” She cooed in a doe-eyed parody of their much-in-denial opponent, O’Malley.

“Don’t be rude.” Sanders replied, pressing her into the soft bed, caressing her old, tired body as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, sandwiched between the warm softness of the bed and him pressed against her, inside her. 

Being taken in the shower in Michigan (it was ugly to think how the water here, a city away, was clean of lead) her eyes stared into his energetic blue ones. He couldn’t be incompetent, arranging these meetings with the media and the Secret Service clustering around them like flies. This after he had been flying all over the state at a grueling pace. She pressed into him, trying to absorb his unnatural energy. He would never win, she thought. Not Michigan, and not her. But she was wrong.

Taken over a dresser in Florida from behind, his fingers rubbing her tiny nub. “That video was a low blow.” He hissed in her ear. “I want everyone to have a fair shake, to be treated equally. Don’t you get as much out of these meetings as I do? Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself or the effect we have on others?” Hillary closed her eyes, trying to shut his words out.

After the Brooklyn debate, she wasn’t sure he would show up, but he did. Pressed against a brick wall, her pants around her right ankle, their eyes sparkling with rage. This was not gentle. This was rough and ugly. “Unqualified.” she snarled. “How dare you.” “And you said I was complicit in the murder of children. How dare you.” He snarled back. When she came, she bit his lip and tasted blood.

In California, she refused to debate. “It’s over.” She told the cameras firmly. A man, even a stubborn Yankee, would know that she didn’t just mean the delegate count. The next day, the news said that Bernie and Trump were in negotiations to debate. Bernie. She thought. A horrifying image came up in her mind, Bernie having their post-debate usual with Trump. Nausea overtook her in waves. One of the Secret Service men brought her a brilliant sheaf of flowers, reds, pinks, and yellows. It’s not over. The card said. And don’t you think it is. B. Hillary held the flowers to her. “Bernie.” She said, into the night where no one could hear her.

2: Convention

The dessert cart went by at the end of the convention dinner. Having the nomination only made you think of what you didn’t have. She hadn’t had dessert in six months. Some reporter was always ready to take an awful picture and chide a woman for eating. She glared at the next table, where the Vermont delegation, Bernie Sanders among them, had just been served large slices of cake studded with walnuts and covered in two inches of maple frosting. 

Bernie had a glob of frosting stuck to his upper lip. She wondered how many people would scream and fall over if she walked over and licked it off. Or if Jane Sanders would hit her with one of the candle holders.

She gave a note to one of the waiters and told him to give it to Bernie. I have so much, but I need more.

He arrived at her room, twenty minutes later, with a slice of that cake. She kissed him, tasting the sweetness still lingering in his mouth. “Can you forgive me?” she asked. 

“All I want is for you to listen and to feel.” He said, as he undressed her. She had missed him, his gentle touch, his eyes that saw through everything. He fed her bites of cake. She laughed as he covered each nipple with frosting and groaned as his tongue licked it off. It was even sweeter when he spread her legs and entered her.

She imagined her inauguration night, the President riding the Vice President in the Lincoln Bedroom, the snowflakes falling outside the window. She wouldn’t even make him pay for the room.


End file.
